Through the Dragon's Eyes
by ultimaton
Summary: Draco recounts certain events from the various HP books (including Book 7 [yes, I really AM as clairvoyant as Mme. Trelawney, thank you for noticing]). A story in four parts. Comments welcome. Part four up!
1. Welcome to Malfoy Manor

Through the Dragon's Eyes

A story in four parts

ANTI-LAWYER HEX: I solemnly swear that I do not own the Harry Potter characters, that I am only borrowing them from J.K. Rowling for my own heinous experiments and that I fully intend to return them to her, more or less intact, when I have finished.  _Lawyerus explodi!_

ONE

      "Harry Potter?  Yeah, I knew him," the man at the bar growled, setting his mug with a dull clunk on the wooden counter before us.  He chuckled mirthlessly.  "Who didn't?  Only person ever to survive an attack by Voldemort."  He lapsed into silence, eyeing the drink in his mug with distaste.

      I found myself wondering if my tip had been less than reliable.  Certainly, the unshaven man before me hardly looked like he came from one of the most prestigious wizarding families in the world: his long, pale blonde hair, though well-groomed, seemed limp and lifeless; his green eyes were dull and weary-looking.  He might have once been proud and handsome but time, worry, and drink had worn away at his fine features, leaving only a shadow of their former selves.  He had been hunched over the counter, nursing his drink when I introduced myself to him, and had not yet looked me full in the eye.  He was obviously a man with a story, but was it the story I wanted?  How could it be?  How could this man be the same person I had been endeavoring to find for the last two weeks?

      We sat for a moment in silence while I considered my course of action.  I could leave--go home and verbally thrash my informant for giving me bad information--or I could stay on the off-chance that for once he had been correct and this shell of a man was the person for whom I had been searching.  I decided to pursue the latter course; if nothing else, this fellow, whoever he was, might provide some previously-unknown insight into my story, and my deadline was still a few days off.  I could afford to waste a little time.

      "Did you ever meet Harry in person?" I asked.

      My companion turned to look at me curiously, giving me a better look at his lined face and the shadows underneath his eyes.  There was definitely a hint of someone noble there, unless the dim lighting of the tavern was playing tricks with my eyes.

      "Who did you say you were?"

      "Gabriel Freely, of _The Wizard Wire_.  From America."

      He grunted and returned to his drink.  "A reporter.  Thought you people had given up on me."

      "It's been twenty-five years," I told him, "and we wanted to do...sort of an anniversary piece.  I heard that you were with him when he..."

      "Never mind," the man said, placing a few coins on the counter and standing up.  "I don't care who you work for; I don't want to talk about it."  He walked away, toward the door.

      So far, so good, I thought.  He was certainly reacting like someone who had witnessed the most explosive event to happen to wizardkind in ages.  I followed him, pressing my case.  "Please, I just want to know what happened."

      "Ask someone else," he snapped, reaching for the handle.

      "There is nobody else," I pointed out.  "You're the last survivor."

      He turned and fixed me with an angry stare, one hand still on the door handle.  "You think this is surviving?" he asked, glaring around at the dirty tavern.  "This is a slow death, Mr. Freely.  This is where those of us who are too cowardly to kill ourselves outright go to rot."

      "Why should you want to die?" I asked, intrigued by the man's simple eloquence and convinced my informant had been correct.  I only had to draw him out, get him to speak, and I would have my story.  "Mr. Malfoy, we still don't know everything that happened that night," I told him.  "You could help to fill in those gaps.  You could help make certain that the real story is told."

      "Not interested," Malfoy replied, opening the door, letting the cool night air enter the smoky room.

      "I need your help," I tried again.  "I want to silence people like Rita Skeeter--"

      "Don't even mention that woman's name!" Malfoy roared, turning to face me.  All other conversations in the dusty room stopped, as the denizens of the establishment turned to stare at us in astonishment.  "You don't know," he continued, jabbing a quivering finger at me, his voice trembling, "you can _never_ know what it was like that night!  Any of you!" he added, glaring at the onlookers.

      "Unless you tell us," I replied in a reasonable tone.

      "No!" he snapped, but I could see his defenses were crumbling.  He honestly wanted the truth to be told; all I had to do was convince him I could cause that to happen, but carefully--one wrong word and I would lose my story forever.

      "All right," I said, holding my hands out placatingly.  "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to.  I'll leave."  We faced each other for a long moment, with the onlookers watching curiously as Malfoy made up his mind.

      Finally, he sighed and said, "No.  Maybe you're right."  He looked at me sharply.  "You'll have to leave your Quick-Quotes Quill behind."

      "No problem," I said with a smile. "I don't use one."

      Malfoy looked doubtfully at me.  "Never met a journalist yet that didn't," he said.

      "I don't like quills and parchment," I admitted.  "They seem so old-fashioned.  I've got"--I pulled a digital voice recorder from my coat pocket--"something that works just as well.  It's a tool common among Muggle journalists, actually--it's completely non-magical. It can only record our actual conversation, which is more than I can say for the famous Quick-Quotes Quill."

      Malfoy nodded once.  "Come on, then," he said, stepping through the door and into the night.

      "What, outside?" I asked.  I was hoping for a more comfortable venue in which to interview him; the night air felt chilly as it blew through the open doorway.

      "You want everyone to overhear your story?"

      "No," I said hastily, following him into the chilly night.  "No, I don't."  We walked along the dirt path that lead through the center of the village.  The shop windows were dark, the shopkeepers at home in a warm bed.  I shivered slightly, pulling my coat more tightly about me.

      "Tell me about Harry," I said after we'd walked for a while in silence, our shoes crunching in the darkness.  "How you first met him.  Hang on a second," I added, starting the voice recorder up.  "Okay, go ahead."

      "Well, I knew of him long before I actually met him face to face," Malfoy began.  "It seemed like all my parents could ever talk about: how Voldemort had been vanquished by 'the Potter boy,' how Dumbledore'd whisked him away someplace before the Death Eaters could lay their hands on him.  You know the story, how he was placed with his Muggle relatives, though at the time no one knew that's where he was.  Wasn't until later that we found out."  He paused, looking up into the night sky, his breath hanging in a misty vapor in front of his face. 

      "My father hated him, of course, just as he'd hated James and Lily, though I never could figure out why."  He grunted.  "Of course, I never tried to understand, either.  I wanted to be just like my father.  You know how it is, or maybe you don't, but when a boy's young, he thinks his father is the greatest man on earth.  And there's nothing he wants more than to be like him, to be approved by him.  Only my father wasn't exactly known for his affection.  But that didn't stop me from trying.  I imitated him, his mannerisms, his bearing, his prejudices..."  He trailed off, sighing heavily.  "I only realize this now, you understand."

      I nodded.  "Go on."

      To an outsider, Malfoy Manor was every bit as imposing as its lord and lady.  Surrounded by a high stone wall, with a black iron gate at one entrance on which the Malfoy family crest was emblazoned, it resembled nothing if not an impenetrable fortress; and indeed, there were various charms and enchantments placed upon both the wall and the grounds to ensure the Malfoys would never have to entertain an uninvited guest.  Some of these were harmless, designed to discourage entry or cloak the manor house from view; but many of them, like the Expelling Enchantment, were more violent.

      The grounds themselves were immaculate and well-kept.  Nowhere was a single leaf or blossom out of place; the hedges and trees were trimmed and unnaturally square, the grass short and edged perfectly along the stone walk leading up to the enormous porch.  Even the ivy winding its way up the gigantic pillars supporting the roof over the porch was evenly spaced, as if it did not dare to grow wild.  Clearly, the Malfoys could afford the upkeep on their estate.

      Draco Malfoy noticed none of this, however, as he wandered the grounds, his two companions huffing and puffing behind him.  As one accustomed to the finer things, he simply took it for granted that it was and always would be a perfect yard.

      He paused and pretended to examine one of the unnatural trees while Crabbe and Goyle bent over behind him, panting

heavily.  In truth, he enjoyed seeing them waddle around the yard, desperately trying to keep up with him, gasping and wheezing the entire time but too dim to question why they were going in circles or why they needed to accompany him at all.  Actually, he had a good reason this time; he didn't trust them to be alone in the same room with his birthday cake.

      "Lovely day for a walk, isn't it?" Draco said maliciously, tearing one of the leaves from the tree, causing it to squeal.

      Neither of his companions responded.  Draco pulled another leaf from the tree.  "Maybe we should go running later."  He did not have to turn around to know Crabbe and Goyle were exchanging looks of consternation.  "Or for a swim.  What do you think?" he asked, pulling another leaf down and turning to face them.  The tree squealed louder.

      Before either of his companions could voice their objections, Draco's mother called from the porch, "Draco, are you picking on the trees again?"  He crumpled the leaves in his hand and let them fall to the ground.

      "No!" he shouted, stepping away from the tree.  "Just going for a walk."

      "Leave the trees alone," Narcissa Malfoy said.  "I won't have you making a mess of the gardener's work."

      "Yes, mother," Draco replied sourly.  "Let's go," he snapped at his companions, who, looking very dispirited, trudged after him toward the porch where his mother stood. 

      Mrs. Narcissa Malfoy was a chillingly beautiful woman, slender and tall, with blonde hair and pale skin, and blue-grey eyes like the ocean frosted over.  Her full, pink lips were compressed into a thin line as she watched her son mount the stairs, followed by his overweight entourage.

      "The guests are arriving," she told him.  "Go wash up.  You too," she added, glancing meaningfully at the disheveled and sweaty Crabbe and Goyle.

      "When's father coming home?" Draco asked.

      "Soon," she replied shortly, ushering them through the large entrance into the foyer.  A large marble staircase, surmounted by an iron rail, took up one side of the entryway, and Draco had a sudden malevolent inspiration.

      "You'll have to use the washroom upstairs," he told Crabbe and Goyle.  "I'll be using the one down here."  His companions looked at him with dismay.  "Well?" he demanded impatiently.  "You heard my mother.  Go wash up."

      Reluctantly, the two began to clamber up the wide stairs, stopping every so often to catch their breath.  Draco snickered and left them to their workout. 

      Three doorways opened off of the foyer; one of these was the coatroom, another led to the drawing room, and the last led to the enormous banquet hall and the kitchen beyond.  Draco entered the banquet hall, noting with satisfaction the large amount of gifts already piled high on one end of the long, polished wooden table that stood in the center of the room.  Vast paintings adorned the high walls on either side of the table, interspersed between large, slitted windows through which shafts of sunlight entered the hall.  Four highly-polished suits of armor stood at attention in each corner, and an enormous, splendidly-wrought gold chandelier was suspended on a golden chain from over the exact center of the room, the light from one thousand everlasting candles casting a yellow glow that reflected from the table, the suits of armor, and the marble floor.  Embedded in the middle of the wall on Draco's left was a gigantic fireplace, where the house elf, Slobby or Grubby or whatever its name was--Draco merely called it "Elf"--was stoking the fire.

      As he passed it, one of the suits of armor saluted him creakily, but Draco ignored it, intent on the house elf, a mischievous glint in his eyes.  He meant to "accidentally" nudge the elf into the flames, but his mother, who had been waiting for him near the doorway on the far wall, hands on her hips, shot him such a cold look that he reconsidered.

      "Torment your little friends if you must," she said as he approached her, "but leave the elf alone.  Unless you want to start doing chores?  I thought not."  She pointed through the doorway.  "Hurry up."

      Draco hurried through the door into the hall beyond.  The washroom was on the right, and he entered the spacious room.  A large stone basin was fixed to one wall, underneath a stone spigot carved in the shape of a ferocious dragon with emeralds for eyes.  Water spurted from the dragon's open mouth as he approached, splashing into the basin below and Draco washed quickly, dashing water on his face and checking his appearance in the large mirror mounted above the dragon's head.  He thought he looked quite handsome and properly impressive, with his pale, pointed face, startling green eyes and white-blonde hair, which had been slicked back.  He grinned cheekily at his reflection, shaking the water from his hands.

      "Finished," he said, holding his palms above the dragon's snout, which obediently stopped spurting water and began to pour forth hot air from each nostril.  At the same time, the water in the basin simply vanished, as if it had never been there.  Checking his appearance one last time, Draco exited the washroom and sauntered back into the banquet hall, where a few children were already milling about.

      "Better," his mother said, gazing at him appraisingly as he entered.  "Go greet your guests."

      Draco sighed; the last thing he wanted to do was make small talk with a bunch of boring children but he could not be impolite, either.  His mother had impressed that on him very early: always be polite to people of your station when in their presence.

      He made his way down the length of the table, where the various children were gathered, looking around at their resplendent surroundings, some of them with awe clearly evident on their faces.  These would be the poorer ones, Draco thought, the ones who could only afford the smaller, less magnificent manor houses, though they were not so poor as to go entirely unnoticed by his family.  Draco resolved to ignore them and concentrate on the families who were nearly as wealthy as his own, such as the Parkinsons.  He had only made it halfway across the room, however, before a large tawny owl soared through one of the high windows, which had opened to admit it.  It fluttered down onto the back of the chair next to Draco, a yellow envelope clamped firmly in its beak.  With some surprise, Draco saw his name, written in ruby red lettering on the outside of the envelope, and reached for it.  The owl hooted, dropping the letter into his outstretched hand before taking flight again.

      "Who's it from, Draco?" asked Pansy Parkinson, skipping over to him, her elaborately-curled hair bouncing.

      "I don't know," Draco answered, staring at his name on the front of the envelope.  He wondered who would be writing to him until he turned the envelope over and saw the crimson Durmstrang seal.

      "I've never seen that coat of arms before," Pansy said, gazing curiously at it.  "Who does it belong to?"

      "Durmstrang," Draco said, tearing open the envelope.  "It'll be my acceptance letter," he added confidently, pulling out two sheafs of parchment.  Sure enough, on the first sheet was written:

The

DURMSTRANG INSTITUTE

Headmaster: Nikolai Rasputin

(Order of Merlin, First Class; Warlock Extraordinaire)

Dear Mr. Malfoy,

      Congratulations on your acceptance at the Durmstrang Institute.  You have become one of a long line of distinguished witches and wizards who were proud to call Dumrstrang their home.  Please find      enclosed a list of the books and equipment you will be required to obtain.

      Term begins on September 1.  We await your answering owl by no later than July 31.  As space is limitied, failure to reply will result in forfeiture of your position.  Should you have any questions, please contact our administrative office.

      Yours sincerely,

      Igor Karkaroff,

      Assistant Headmaster

      The second page contained a list of the supplies he would need.  Draco carelessly stuffed the papers back into the envelope, glancing at Pansy who was staring at him inquisitively.

      "Your parents aren't sending you to Hogwarts?" she asked.

      "No," Draco snorted disdainfully, "what with Dumbledore's policy of accepting anyone.  Father wanted a more exclusive school."

      "Oh," Pansy said, looking crestfallen.  "My parents _are_ sending me to Hogwarts."

      Draco laughed.  "My parents are little more discerning in these matters."  Catching her sharp look out of the corner of his eye, he added hastily, "Not that your parents aren't.  Perhaps they don't know that Durmstrang is an option.  It normally isn't for students who live as far south as we do, but with the right amount of money, I'm sure they'd accept you, too."

      Pansy seemed to consider this.  "Maybe I can get my parents to send me," she said thoughtfully.

      "Worth a try," Draco said.  He lowered his voice conspiratorially.  "My father says they teach you the Dark Arts as a practical tool, rather than simply showing you how to protect yourself."

      "Really?" Pansy breathed, her eyes wide.  "I want to go!"

      "Talk to your parents," Draco said with a smirk.  "Bully them into sending you."

      "I will," Pansy promised.

      Mrs. Malfoy reentered the room at that point, behind a very large, many-layered floating birthday cake, which she nudged along with a wave of her wand.  There were "oohs" from the various children surrounding the table, particularly from Crabbe and Goyle, who had only just returned from their adventures on the staircase, and who gazed, entranced, at the confection as it settled slowly onto the polished surface of the table.  Ten candles were arranged in a circle on the top layer of the cake, ranging in color from jade green to bloodred, with a solitary eleventh candle, its flame burning black as night, in the center.  The house elf trotted behind her, balancing several china plates in one hand while the other clutched forks and napkins.

      "Excuse me," Draco said to Pansy, walking to the head of the table.  "I just got my acceptance letter from Durmstrang," he announced triumphantly to his mother as he approached.

      "Good," she answered briskly.  "Gather around!" she called to the children at the other end of the room.  "It's time for cake!"

      Crabbe and Goyle arrived with remarkable speed, considering their size, followed by the other children.  Draco frowned; someone was missing.

      "Where's father?" he asked.  "Isn't he coming?"

      "No," his mother replied.  "I just finished talking to him.  He was delayed at the Ministry."

      Draco felt a pang of disappointment that started in his chest and began to spread throughout his body.  He tried to fight it back but only had limited success.  "Oh," was all he could manage to say. 

      Suddenly, it didn't matter that he'd been accepted at the school his father wanted him to attend, or that it was his birthday--nothing mattered except that Lucius Malfoy was not there.  He looked around at the smiling, expectant faces of his peers, people he hardly knew anyway, and he hated them for being happy.  He wanted to strike the smiles from their faces, to shout at them that they had no business feeling that way when he was completely miserable, but he held his tongue.  It would not do to embarass himself or his mother in front of their guests.

      "Ready to blow out the candles?" Mrs. Malfoy said, seemingly oblivious to how her news had hurt her son.  "On three.  One...two..."

      Draco heaved a heavy sigh and blew on the candles, whose flames, rather than extinguishing themselves, emitted beams of colored light that richocheted off the walls, the floor, the portraits (much to the dissatisfaction of their subjects), even one of the suits of armor before coalescing into flickering, multi-hued letters that hung above the cake, spelling out, "Happy Birthday, Draco."  The other children clapped appreciatively, but Draco barely noticed.

      "All right, everyone queue up," Mrs. Malfoy said, conjuring a long knife from thin air.  "The birthday boy first, boys," she added, as Crabbe and Goyle had shoved their way to the front of the queue.  She took a plate from the house elf and loaded a large piece of cake onto it, handing it to Draco, who accepted it with a forced smile; he felt he would as soon eat the cake as the house elf.  Why hadn't his father come?  What could be so important at the Ministry that he would miss his son's eleventh birthday, the day that a normal witch or wizard was accepted at one of the wizarding schools?

      But then, he thought bitterly, seating himself at the table, that was always the way.  How many of his birthdays had Lucius Malfoy actually been present for?  He could only think of three, and those were his first three.  After that, Draco was lucky if his father's head made a brief appearance in the fireplace to wish him well.  He stared glumly at his piece of cake, on which an azure blue candle still burned, as Pansy Parkinson sat next to him.

      "What's wrong?" she asked.

      "Nothing," he said shortly.

      "If you say so," she said, cutting into the cake with her fork.  She glanced scornfully at Crabbe and Goyle, who were already heading back up to the front of the table for seconds.  "Why do you hang around with those two, anyway?"

      "Who should I be hanging out with?" Draco replied disdainfully.  "You?  Think I want to hang around with someone who'll have the stench of Mudbloods all over her?"  He didn't mean to be so terrible, but he couldn't help it; the disappointment he felt had given way to anger.  Anger at his father, who never wanted to be around him.  In fact, Crabbe and Goyle were probably the only people who _did_ want to hang around, and that thought hurt, too.

      Pansy froze, shocked, the cake halfway to her mouth.  "N-no--I was just--"

      "Never mind," Draco snapped, throwing his fork onto the table with a steely clatter and standing up.  He felt ashamed, but he shunted the feeling aside as he stormed away, leaving Pansy in tears.  _Good,_ he thought angrily, _she deserves it, stupid girl, asking stupid questions._  But he could not entirely shake the guilt from his conscience.

      After that, the whole party was a disaster.  His mother cornered him, demanding an explanation for his disgraceful behavior, Pansy Parkinson was inconsolable and her parents had to take her home, and the rest of his guests looked uneasy and talked in hushed voices among themselves.  Draco stubbornly held onto his fury, refusing to apologize or to acknowledge his feelings of remorse.  Finally, Mrs. Malfoy was forced to call an end to the festivities, apologizing profusely. 

      "We have several fireplaces you can use," she told the children.  "Dobby, show the children to the sitting room first."  The children filed out, following the house elf; all except Crabbe and Goyle, who were busy loading their plates with as much cake as they could carry.

      "_Wait_ until your father hears about this!" Mrs. Malfoy seethed, rounding on her son as his two overlarge companions edged out of the room, clutching their plates tightly.

      "I hope he does!" Draco shot back.  It was all Lucius Malfoy's fault; if the man had only deigned to attend his son's birthday party for once, things would have happened differently.  "Are we through?"

      "For the time being," Mrs. Malfoy replied, scowling icily.  "Go to your room."

      With an angry huff, Draco turned on his heel and stormed out into the foyer.  Crabbe and Goyle looked up, startled, from where they were sitting cross-legged on the floor, their faces covered with cake and frosting, empty plates in front of them.  He ignored them, stomping up the marble stairs to his room, and slamming the door behind him.

      Lucius Malfoy did not return until late in the evening.  Draco awoke to the sound of the front door closing and the house elf saying obsequiously, "Does master want Dobby to take his cloak?"

      "Here," his father's bored, drawling voice said from downstairs, "and mind you don't wrinkle it this time."

      Draco blinked and sat up groggily, wiping his mouth.  He had evidently fallen asleep after throwing himself onto his bed earlier; the black sheets and bedspread were in disarray and single lock of pale blonde hair hung loosely in front his face.  He brushed it away and stood up, stretching, tensing as he heard his mother's low voice conversing with his father's below.  He strained to hear, but they were talking too quietly for him to make out any words.  As it was, he knew his mother was reporting the events of the afternoon to his father, who would undoubtedly be along to talk to him.

      Draco stumbled over to the full-length mirror that stood in one corner of his room, checking his reflection to ensure that he was presentable.  His father always chided him for even the slightest imperfection in his appearance, and his flyaway hair and wrinkled clothing, side-effects of sleep, would definitely earn him the elder Malfoy's reproof.  He ran his hands through his hair, attempting to smooth it, but it only made his hair stand on end, causing his reflection to snicker.

      "Oh, be quiet," he told it, irritably.

      "You're going to catch it now," his reflection said.  "Acting the way you've done."

      "I don't recall asking your opinion," Draco snapped, turning away.

      "Poor ickle Draco, he misses his daddy."

      "Shut up!" Draco shouted fiercely, turning back to the mirror with one fist raised.

      "Uh-uh," his reflection said, wagging a forefinger at him.  "Seven years' bad luck, if you do."

      "That's just superstition," Draco said, but he lowered his arm anyway, though his fist remained tightly clenched.

      "Only one way to find out," said the mirror.  Suddenly, his reflection grinned malevolently, glancing at the door to his bedroom.  "Uh-oh, guess who's coming?" 

      Draco froze as the door opened and his father walked in.  He hadn't even heard him come up the stairs.    Lucius Malfoy regarded his son with a disapproving air, one eyebrow arched inquisitively.  Draco let his hand fall to his side, turning to face his father but unable to look him in the eye.

      "Temper, Draco," his father murmured reprovingly.

      "Yes, father," Draco replied.

      "Your mother tells me your temper's been getting the better of you lately.  Is this true?"

      "Yes, sir."  There was no point in trying to cover it up; his father would see right through any such attempt.

      "I should think you would know better than to embarass yourself and your mother so," Mr. Malfoy continued.  "You are a Malfoy, Draco; a gentleman, and you are obliged to act like one.  Never forget that."

      "Yes, father," Draco mumbled again, feeling his cheeks flush as his father's words stirred up the shame he refused to feel earlier.

      "Look at me," his father commanded.  "Stand up straight."  Draco did as he was told, forcing himself to stare directly into his father's icy gaze.  "You will offer your most abject apologies to Ms. Parkinson and her family," Mr. Malfoy continued, "and, in the future, you will keep your temper in check.  Have I made myself clear?"

      Draco nodded mutely.

      "Good," his father replied.  "I expect to hear from Nathaniel Parkinson that you have reconciled with his daughter."  He cast an appraising glance at his son's dishevled hair and clothing.  "And I do hope you intend to clean up before you come to supper.  You may have acted like a commoner earlier, but there is no need to look like one."  He turned to go.  "Your mother and I will expect you at the table in ten minutes," he said, closing the door behind him.

      Draco sniffed as the door shut, brushing away the hot tears that had welled up in his eyes, indicators of the anger and humiliation and sorrow churning within him.  His father hadn't even mentioned his birthday.


	2. Harry Potter

Through the Dragon's Eyes

A story in four parts

ANTI-LAWYER HEX: I solemnly swear that I do not own the Harry Potter characters, that I am only borrowing them from J.K. Rowling for my own heinous experiments and that I fully intend to return them to her, more or less intact, when I have finished.  _Lawyerus explodi!_

TWO

"Sorry," my companion said.  "I've been rambling a bit.  You wanted to know about Harry Potter."

      "It's all right," I told him, waving one hand dismissively.  It was true, I _did_ want to know about this man's relationship to Harry Potter, and specifically about the night it all ended, but the night was young, and somehow I just couldn't bear to interrupt.  I checked my voice recorder.  "We still have two hours to cover everything."

      "I'm not sure if that'll be enough," Mr. Malfoy said dryly.  "I can go on and on."  He shook his head ruefully.  "Too much to try and express, and it all wants to come out at once."

      He began to walk again, and I followed, grateful to be moving; the night air felt like it was chilling my insides.  There was no moon overhead to illuminate the narrow track as it wound through the village, and I stumbled occasionally on an unseen rock or depression in the ground.  Finally we arrived at the outskirts of town, opposite the tavern where we began, nearly an hour before.

      "This is it," he told me, gesturing at the simple, two-story building before us.  "Home."  He said this with some distaste, as if "home" meant quite a different thing to him than the word implied.  "It's not much." 

      He pushed on the rough wooden door, holding it for me as I entered.  A narrow wooden staircase took up one half of the entryway, lit only by a single yellow candle, radiating a ghostly yellow light, which was mounted on the wall above the stairs.  The left side of the entry rapidly fell into darkness, preventing me from seeing what lay beyond.

      My companion nodded toward the steps.  "Upstairs." 

      We ascended the wooden stairs, our footsteps seeming unnaturally loud in the gloomy silence.  The building had a must odor which became more pronounced as we reached the top.  A tattered, moldy-looking carpet stretched down the hall before us, receding into shadow at the far end.  Spaced evenly on each side of the hall were six or seven doors, with a candle mounted to one side.  In the dim light, I could faintly make out the glint of tarnished numbers on each.

      "Number twenty-six," Malfoy grunted, taking the lead.  We traveled halfway down the hall toward a door on the left-hand side.  Malfoy dug into his pockets, withdrawing what appeared to be a rusty skeleton key.  "It's an old building," he explained, turning the key in the lock.  The door swung open on its hinges, creaking loudly.  "After you."

      Not without some trepidation, I entered the apartment of Draco Malfoy.  The room, for that's all it was, was sparse in its appointments.  A kitchenette was on one wall, and a door on the opposite wall led to the washroom.  In the middle of it all was a simple wooden bed, on which a frayed bedspread had been arranged.  A crude wooden chair provided the only other furnishing.

      "I know," he said, catching my barely concealed amazement as he turned to close the door.  "A long way to fall, isn't it?"

      "How?" I asked delicately.  "What happened to your inheritance?"

      "My inheritance?" Malfoy repeated, walking over to the bed and collapsing onto it.  "Have a seat," he said, pointing to the chair.

      "It turns out my 'inheritance' was the Malfoy family name and that's about all," he continued as I sat down.  "My relatives saw fit to brand me as a Death Eater after Voldemort was destroyed, and the families of the Dark Lord's victims sued for reparations.  By the time they were through with me, this"--he waved one hand over himself--"was all I had."  He sighed.  "They even confiscated my wand."

      "You weren't a Death Eather, then?" I asked, leaning forward.  The rumors that had flown after Voldemort's end had definitely implicated Draco Malfoy; helped along, in part, by Rita Skeeter.

      "No.  My father was, but I paid for it," he replied, a trace of bitterness in his voice.  In a lot of ways, I'm paying for everything my father did."

      I felt a stirring of sympathy in me and quickly squashed it.  _He's just a story_, I reminded myself.  _Just a means to end._  But I couldn't quite shake the feeling, so I decided to change the subject before it got any worse.  "Tell me about the day you met Harry Potter."

      July passed uneventfully, with but two exceptions.  Draco mumbled his apology to Pansy Parkinson, very red in the face, and to his suprise, she readily accepted it.

      "I forgive you," she told him loftily.  "I know you didn't mean it.  And anyway, it was a silly thing to ask; I mean, you won't be associating with those two Neanderthals when you get to Durmstrang, will you?  My parents are still sending me to Hogwarts, though," she confessed mournfully.  "Mother doesn't like the idea of my being too far away.  Durmstrang is awfully far off.  Father told me that as long as I'm placed in Slytherin house, I won't have to associate _too_ much with the lower sort of individuals."

      Her statement set Draco's thoughts in motion.  Until now, Durmstrang had always been a vague idea in his head, but the beginning of term was rapidly approaching.  He had never considered how far away the school might be, and it suddenly became important for him to find out.

      "How far away?" he demanded, trying to keep the uncertainty from his voice.

      "Well, no one really knows," Pansy replied authoritatively.  "It's Unplottable, and you can only get there on the school ship.  It's rather like Hogwarts; I hear you have to ride a train to get there."

       His parents were of equally as little help.

      "I don't know, somewhere north," she answered him when he asked where the school was, waving her hand vaguely and sipping at her tea.  "Your father has been there."

      "Its location is secret," Lucius Malfoy told him coolly.  "An elite wizarding school could hardly be located where just _anyone_ could find it."

      "Is it very far away?" Draco asked, attempting to keep his voice level, to keep the panic from it.  The truth was, Draco had never been very far from home, and Durmstrang was beginning to sound as remote as the moon.  _Maybe that's what it is,_ he thought wildly, _maybe it's a_ flying _ship._

      "Far enough to prevent the likes of Dumbledore's students from gaining entrance," his father replied slowly, his slate gray eyes boring into his son's.  "Surely you would prefer to be among pureblood wizards, Draco?  To be taught by the finest minds wizardkind has to offer, rather than by a Muggle-loving fool who is willing to group pureblooded wizards and half-breeds together, as if they were _equals_?"

      "Of course," he agreed, frowning and trying to sound offended at the very thought of Mudbloods, but he didn't come across as very convincing, and his father stared at him speculatively, unblinking, for what felt like forever.

      "Good," he drawled at length, turning away.  "Then the matter is settled."

      But it was far from settled in Draco's mind; it haunted him vigorously over the next few days.  Although he didn't want to admit it, he was afraid to be so far away from everything he knew for such a long a time, even if he was allowed to come home during the holidays.  His nightmares were filled with visions of coming home to find the house deserted, or a different family living there, and no way of finding his parents.  He woke up night after night, rigid with fear, and the lack of sleep, coupled with his anxiety, caused him to become surly and ill-tempered.  Even the house elf avoided him; but this was also because Draco aimed a kick in its direction whenever he passed.

      As the last week of July arrived, Draco finally screwed up his courage.  "I want to go to Hogwarts," he announced imperiously to his father, who was seated in a leather armchair in the drawing room, reading the morning _Prophet_.

      "I believe it was decided that you were attending Durmstrang," Lucius Malfoy said quietly, without looking up from the newspaper.

      "I know, it's just--mother," he said, seizing on an idea.  "I don't want her to have to worry about my being so far away."

      His father lowered the paper to gaze at him balefully.  "Your mother has voiced no such concern to me."

      "Have you asked?" Draco demanded, praying that he hadn't.

      "No," Mr. Malfoy admitted, "but I wonder if this sudden concern for your mother's well-being does not spring from another source."  The paper rustled as he folded it and set it on his lap, his full attention now reserved soley for his son.

      "All of my friends are going to Hogwarts," Draco pointed out, hoping to deflect his father's suspicions.

      "Oh, yes," Mr. Malfoy sneered, "Crabbe and Goyle.  The fact that _they_ were accepted at Hogwarts is evidence enough of Dumbledore's inability to discern who is worthy of education.  Half-wits and half-breeds all under one roof."  He shook his head.  "Have you no higher ambition than to associate with the dregs of humanity, Draco?"

      "Supposing I was placed in Slytherin," Draco inquired nervously.  His father was not budging and distant Durmstrang loomed closer with every passing day.  "You were in Slytherin--they're more exclusive, aren't they?"

      "Salazar Slytherin's noble house and vision have suffered somewhat since then, particularly under Dumbledore's rule."

      Draco mentally cursed Dumbledore and his policies, which had made father so intractable.  "But you're on the board of governors, can't you stop him?" 

      "My position on the board is not enough to entirely prevent the degradation of Slytherin's ideals."  His father paused, looking thoughtful.  "However, if my own son was to attend, and was subjected to some of Dumbledore's more...unconventional ideas, it might provide me with the leverage I need to curtail some of Dumbledore's...creativity."  He smiled thinly.

      Draco stood stock still, hardly daring to hope that his father had changed his mind, or that he was actually going to rely on him to help bring Dumbledore into line.

      "Very well," the elder Malfoy said slowly, after further consideration, staring hard at his son.  "If you attend Hogwarts, I expect you to demonstrate your superior heritage."

      "I will," Draco promised, almost sagging with the sudden relief coursing through him, at the same time feeling more buoyant than he had in a month.  He would not be sent away after all.

      "You may find it difficult," his father warned him.  "Hogwarts has become the bastion of the lower sort of wizard.  You will need to remain above that."

      "I can handle it, father.  Maybe we can find a way to get Dumbledore sacked," Draco added hopefully.

      "Perhaps," Lucius Malfoy murmured.  "That will depend on you."

      Thus, little more than a month before term began, Draco Malfoy was formally admitted to Hogwarts.  His father made the necessary arrangements, utilizing his influence at the school, and by the last day of July everything had been arranged.  The family departed late that morning for Diagon Alley, to obtain the last of Draco's school supplies.

      Draco had been to Diagon Alley before, and he hated it.  Narrow and crooked, it had always been crowded whenever he visited, and today was no exception.  His father, a haughty expression on his face, moved swiftly through the throng, followed by Draco and his mother.  Occasionally, Lucius Malfoy would nudge the odd startled witch or wizard to one side with the end of his walking stick, leaving them spluttering in outrage as the trio passed.  Draco smirked and kept his eyes open for a broom shop.  If he played his cards right, maybe he could get his parents to buy him a racing broom this time.

      "You'll want proper robes first," his mother said, directing his gaze toward their destination: a small shop over which hung a sign reading "Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions."  A single glass window in the front of the building displayed two dummies, one dressed in black velvet robes; the other wore robes made of a radiant white satin that glowed with a pale silver light, like moonlight.  A garland of white blossoms was arranged decoratively on top of the second dummy's featureless head.  A small sign affixed to the bottom of the glass bore the words "July Wedding Specials--Last Day to Claim Unbelievable Savings!"  

      A bell jingled in the back of the shop as they entered.  Various racks containing robes of all imaginable colors were arranged around the front half of the store.  The back half was devoted to a large fitting area, complete with three mirrors and three footstools, and a small door through which an older witch, barely taller than Draco and dressed entirely in mauve, now bustled.

      "Morning!" the witch greeted them brightly, walking briskly up to the trio.  "Here for the lad's school robes?  We've some nice ones for sale over there," she said, indicating one rack with an outstretched hand.  "We can custom-fit them for a nominal fee."

      "Price is of no import," his father replied coldly.

      "Ah, I might have known, Mr. Malfoy.  Let me have a look at you," she said to Draco, taking his hand and pulling him forward.  "Mm," she said thoughtfully as she spun him around twice, "I think black would be your best color."  She looked inquiringly at his father, who nodded once. 

      "Paisley!" the mauve witch called, and another short, gray-haired witch appeared from the small doorway, dressed in bright colors, and hastened over to where the party stood.  "Get him fitted, would you?  There's a dear," she said, ushering Draco over to the second witch, who took his hand and led him toward the back of the shop.  The first witch turned back to Draco's parents.  "Is there anything else we can do for you?"

      "No," his mother answered.  "Give me your list of supplies, Draco."

      Draco disentangled himself from the paisley witch and hurried over to his father, drawing a piece of parchment from the pocket of his shirt.

      "Your father can buy your schoolbooks next door," said his mother, taking and unfolding the parchment.  "The only other item you still need is a wand."

      "Ollivander's is close by," the mauve witch said helpfully.

      His mother nodded.  "I know.  I'll see to that."

      "What about a broom?" Draco asked hopefully as his parents turned to leave.

      "First years at Hogwarts are forbidden brooms," his father called over his shoulder.  "The same rule does not apply to students of _other_ schools."

      "Well," said the mauve witch as his parents departed.  "Shall we get started?"

      Scowling, Draco allowed himself to be led to the back of the shop where the witch named Paisley was waiting for him.  He had not known about the restriction, but it sounded like something Dumbledore would dream up.  Why shouldn't first years have their own brooms? he thought angrily, as Paisley helped him up onto the footstool.  Probably because the Mudblood students couldn't fly and they didn't want them to feel left out.  Just another reason Mudbloods were deficient, if they didn't even know how to fly a broom.  His thoughts were cut off as Paisley shucked a black robe over his head, plunging him into momentary darkness.

      "There we are," she said around a mouthful of pins as Draco's head reappeared.  She began pinning the robe in various places while Draco continued to fume.

      He was still frowning slightly when another boy entered the shop a few minutes later, though his thoughts had turned from anger at being denied a broom to consideration of how he might sneak one in anyway, provided he could convince his parents to buy him one.  Consequently, he paid little attention to the boy, who stood uncertainly in the doorway until the mauve witch approached him.

      "Hogwarts, dear?  Got the lot here--another young man being fitted up just now, in fact."

      As the first witch escorted the newcomer to the second footstool, Draco gave him a brief glance, wondering idly if he was a pureblood or not; his father was able to tell at first glance.  The boy was dressed strangely, in odd clothes that were too large for him and hung loosely from his thin frame.  He had black hair that hung down untidily over his forehead, and glasses that had been broken and repaired with what looked like spellotape.  Whatever else the new boy was, he was clearly not rich.

      "Hello," Draco said with chilly politeness as the dark-haired boy stepped up onto the footstool beside him.  "Hogwarts, too?"

      The other boy nodded as the mauve witch slipped a dark blue robe over his head.  "Yes."

      They had a conversation, after a fashion, over the next ten minutes or so.  Draco was paying little attention, having returned to musing about the best way to slip a broomstick into Hogwarts unnoticed.  Consequently, when a horrible, hairy giant of man appeared suddenly at the window, Draco was so startled that he backed right into a pin the paisley witch was inserting into the back of his robe.

      "Careful!" she admonished, reseating the pin.

      Draco shot a nasty look at her, then turned back to the window where the giant madman was gesturing happily at the other boy with two ice cream cones.  What could have posessed him to show his face here?  The hairy oaf seemed intent on gaining his companion's attention. 

      Draco glanced curiously at the dark haired boy, who was determinedly avoiding his gaze.  "Look at that man," he said, nodding toward the window.

      The other boy looked up and Draco saw his face light with recognition.  "That's Hagrid.  He works at Hogwarts."

      Draco recognized the name from a story Lucius Malfoy had recounted at supper few nights prior.  Hagrid was a servant who lived on the Hogwarts grounds, and, according to Draco's father, he was a great bumbling brute, prohibited from performing magic because he was unable to control the results.  His father had told them, his every word dripping with disdain, of how the hairy half-wit had, after a few drinks, attempted a simple cleaning spell and set fire to his bed instead, nearly burning down the hovel in which he lived.  Naturally, his father had attempted to have the blundering buffoon sacked, but Dumbledore was adamant in his refusal to do so.  Draco agreed with his father; the man looked every bit the enormous oaf his father made him out to be, and then some.  The fact that he seemed to know the dark haired boy next to him was strange, though--surely the two weren't acquaintances?

      It turned out they were.  During the last few minutes of their conversation, in which Draco ascertained that the other boy not only _knew_ the hairy giant but _liked_ him, Draco's opinion of his companion was, if possible, lowered even more.  As far as Draco was concerned, no self-respecting pureblooded wizard--for that's what the boy claimed to be, having a witch and a wizard for parents--would be seen associating with a savage such as now stood outside, happily devouring one of the ice cream cones.

      Finally, the mauve witch was finished.  "That's you done, my dear," she said, helping the dark haired boy wriggle out of the pinned-up robe.  He jumped down from his footstool, relief evident on his face, and made for the brute outside, without even bothering to say good-bye.

      "I'll see you at Hogwarts, I suppose," Draco called after him.  In truth, he very much doubted it, unless the boy was somehow placed in Slytherin.  He hoped not; Salazar Slytherin would probably return from his grave if such a thing occurred.  For the last few minutes, he amused himself with visions of following a corpselike Slytherin through the halls of Hogwarts, watching as he jinxed students from the other houses, who fled left and right, scrambling to escape their fate.  For some reason, though, the dark haired boy always ended up vanquishing the Slytherin zombie, no matter how times Draco replayed the scenario in his mind and he frowned.

      "That'll do, lad," the paisley witch said at last, interrupting Draco's thoughts and helping him slip out of the black robes.  "We'll have these done up by this afternoon."

      Draco nodded at her and took a minute to smooth his hair in the mirror before leaping lightly to the ground.  His mother was waiting for him as he left the shop, blinking in the bright sunlight.

      "Mr. Ollivander and I have reached an agreement on your wand," his mother told him as they made their way through the crowd to Flourish and Blotts next door.  "You have only to try it, but I believe it suits you.  There are quite a few students out purchasing school supplies today," she observed as Draco caught up with her, having been pushed out of the way by a pair of older red-headed children.

      He shot a dark look over his shoulder and said, "Yeah.  There was one in the robe shop."

      "Oh?"

      Draco shrugged as they entered the bookstore.  "Just a common boy," he said carelessly as his eyes fell on a miniature model of a racing broom.  "Nobody worth knowing.  Let's look at brooms after this."  He nudged the tiny broom with one finger, completely forgetting about the dark haired boy as it soared over his outstretched arm and began circling his head.


	3. Awakenings

Through the Dragon's Eyes

A story in four parts

ANTI-LAWYER HEX: I solemnly swear that I do not own the Harry Potter characters, that I am only borrowing them from J.K. Rowling for my own heinous experiments and that I fully intend to return them to her, more or less intact, when I have finished.  _Lawyerus explodi!_

THREE

      "I wasn't enamored of Potter," Malfoy said candidly, laying back on the bed and staring at the cracked and peeling ceiling, where several yellow discolored spots, evidence of water leakage, were visible.  "Even before I knew who he was.  My father, on the other hand--well, Harry became Lucius Malfoy's new obsession."  He shook his head.  "He forgot all about his own son.  Not that I was ever a priority to begin with, mind."

      "Did Harry know how you felt?" I inquired.

      My companion chuckled humorlessly.  "He knew.  I went out of my way to show him how I felt.  I was jealous and angry that a common, Mudblood-loving boy--forgive my bluntness--could draw my father's attention when I couldn't.  I'm afraid I was rather petty when I was younger, even going so far as to start rumors about him in _The Daily Prophet._"

      I nodded.  "You mean the Rita Skeeter articles during the first new Triwizard Tournament."

      He grunted.  "Ironic, isn't it?  I never imagined how that must have felt until it happened to me."

      "She started all sorts of rumors about both of you," I agreed.  "And, of course, the copycat journalists followed in her footsteps."

      He smiled grimly.  "Remember the one about how I killed my father, supposedly at Voldemort's command?"

      The rickety chair in which I sat creaked as I leaned forward, interested.  "Yes," I answered cautiously.  Was he about to reveal the truth behind that rumor?  I checked my digital voice recorder to make sure it was still functioning.

      "It's not true," he said pointedly, evidently noticing my curiosity.  "It's actually the other way around."

      "You mean, Voldemort ordered your father to kill you?"

      He nodded. 

      "How did that happen?"

      "It's a long story," he told me.  "Sure you have enough time remaining on that thing?"

      "I'll take notes if I have to.  With a pen," I added, drawing my wand from my inner coat pocket.  Malfoy nodded once again as I conjured a notepad and a ballpoint pen, laying my wand and the recorder on the floor next to me so that I could write.  "Go ahead."

      "The first thing you need to understand is that a boy can only see his father as a hero for so long.  As he grows up, he begins to perceive faults that previously went unnoticed.  I started to see Lucius Malfoy in a different light when I turned sixteen."

      Draco awoke to the sound of a sharp cry from downstairs.  He sat up in his bed, heart pounding, listening hard.  The voice had sounded like his father's, but Draco had never known Lucius Malfoy to voice pain.  Besides, he thought darkly, his father was in Azkaban, no thanks to Dumbledore, accused of being a Death Eater.  He pushed the thought aside, wondering if someone had broken in.  The protective enchanments on the house and grounds were many and complex, and should have prevented such a thing, but a highly-skilled wizard might be still be able to slip past them.  He held very still, not daring to breathe, but was unable to hear any other sounds in the dark manor house. 

      Finally, unable to stand the mounting tension any longer, he slipped out of bed and padded to the door, opening it slightly and peering out into the hall.  The air was cold on his bare chest, but he ignored it, glancing toward his parents' bedroom.  No light emanated from under their door, meaning his mother was asleep, but there was a faint light visible at the bottom of the marble stairs.  Quietly, he retrieved his wand from the nightstand by his bed and crept carefully downstairs.  Technically, he was not allowed to use the wand outside of school, but if someone had managed to get past the security spells, he wanted to be ready.  And anyway, if Potter could be let off the previous summer on the grounds of self-defense, so could he.

      As he reached the bottom of the marble staircase, he discovered the dim light was coming from the drawing room.  Wand held high, he slipped along the wall toward the open doorway.  He could hear someone moving around inside.  He paused just outside the room, gathering his courage, before leaping suddenly into the room.

      "_Impedimentia!_" he shouted, aiming his wand at the dark-clad figure crouching on the drawing room floor.

      "_Protego!_" the figure croaked at nearly the same instant, brandishing a wand of its own, and Draco's spell rebounded, striking him full in the chest.  He cried out as the jinx singed his bare skin and crumpled to the ground, his muscles no longer functional.  The figure heaved itself from the floor and staggered over to him, pushing back its hood to reveal the face of his father.

      "D-dad?" Draco gasped, squinting up in disbelief at his father.  Lucius Malfoy's pale blonde hair, normally impeccable, was now matted and unkempt.  His face was dirty and bruised on one side, there were hollows under his eyes, and blood trickled from one temple. 

      His father glared down at him, swaying for a moment on unsteady feet, before waving his wand again and muttering, "_Finite incantatum._"

      Draco found himself able to move once more, but his chest still stung where the spell had struck.  He sat up shakily, looking worriedly at his father, who had collapsed wearily into his leather armchair.  "Are you all right?"

      His father did not answer.

      "How did you escape?" Draco asked, getting to his feet.

      Lucius chuckled mirthlessly, not looking at his son but at the opposite wall, on which hung a painting of a solitary fortress perched on a dark rock, surrounded by the wind-lashed sea.  "The dementors no longer guard Azkaban," he whispered softly, "and it will take more than a bunch of incompetent wizards to keep a Malfoy in chains.  Dumbledore will rue the day he crossed me," he murmured, "and Potter, too."

      Draco pointed at his father's bleeding temple.  "You're hurt," he said.

      His father touched his temple with one hand, drawing away blood.  "Alastor Moody," he said softly, gazing at his blood-soaked fingers as if seeing them for the first time.

      "Dad," Draco said earnestly, kneeling at his father's feet and looking him directly in the eye.  "What happened?"

      His father stared at him.  "Fetch your mother," he said at length.

      "What?  Why?  Why won't you tell me what's going on?  The papers are saying you're a Death Eater, that you were caught inside the Department of Mysteries, that you're to be tried in connection with the death of Sirius Black...!"  He trailed off, looking expectantly at his father, his insides churning, anger evident on his face.

      "Your mother," Lucius Malfoy repeated.

      "I have a right to know what's happening!" Draco flared, standing up. 

      His father's lined face became as hard as stone.  "Bring...your mother..to me _now_!" he said, placing a dangerous emphasis on each word.

      Draco clenched his jaw, staring furiously at his father for a moment, who returned his stare with a steely glint in his eyes.  The two glared at each other for a moment before Draco huffed and turned on his heel and stalked away, jaw working furiously.  Just who did his father think he was, anyway, cavorting with Death Eaters (this was not a surprise; Draco had suspected his father of being one of Voldemort's supporters) and possibly murdering a family member?  For all his talk, Draco had never considered actually killing another human being, pureblooded wizard or not, and he was disturbed by his father's actions, and he was angry that he was so disturbed.  Even when the Chamber of Secrets had been opened, the worst that had happened was the Petrification of students; it never occurred to him that anyone would _die_ until the final message had been scrawled on the wall.  But Potter had prevented that, hadn't he, and no one had been killed.

      Except Cedric Diggory, but that was at the hands of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, and everyone knew he was a cold-blooded killer of wizards and Muggles alike.  To see his father in the same ominous light as Lord Voldemort was quite something else, particularly since Sirius had been a full-blooded wizard and his uncle, though Draco had never known him.

      With a start, he realized he had reached the door to his parents' bedroom.  "Mom?" he called softly, knocking on the door.  "Mom, dad's home."

      He heard his mother stir behind the door, and a moment later it swung open.

      "What?" his mother asked him sleepily, clutching her robe tightly.

      "Dad's downstairs," Draco said, pointing.

      All traces of sleep suddenly gone, Mrs. Malfoy hurried down to the drawing room, Draco in tow.  "Lucius!" she gasped upon seeing her husband sprawled in the armchair, and she rushed over to him.  "Are you all right?"

      "As much as can be expected," his father murmured, his eyes closed.  "Send the boy away."

      Draco froze where he was standing, struck cold by his father's words.  Lucius Malfoy had never before referred to him as "the boy."

      "Draco, go to your room," his mother said at once, cutting him off with a warning look as he opened his mouth to protest angrily.  "Don't argue."

      Draco clamped his mouth shut and left the room, fists clenched so hard they had turned white.  He could turn his father in, he thought furiously as he stomped upstairs, call the Ministry of Magic and let them know he'd escaped.  But even as the thought occurred to him, he knew he wouldn't do it, wouldn't risk disappointing his father so.  Whatever he may have done, Lucius Malfoy was still his father, and he resolved to stick by him until the end, reasoning that his father was tired, having just made a daring escape from the inescapable prison.  The thought did little to quell his frustration, however--he wanted to know, wanted to help his father.  But how could he, when the man refused to talk to him?

      Draco entered his room and closed the door quietly.  The moonlight shone through the tall window on the opposite wall, reflecting from the mirror in the corner and casting an iridescent glow over everything.  Acting on a sudden impulse, Draco approached the mirror, in which his reflection was fast asleep on his reflected bed.

      "Wake up!" he hissed.  It stirred fitfully but did not awake.  He grasped the top of the mirror and shook it slightly, rattling the contents of his reflected room and causing his reflection to tumble out of bed.

      "All right, all _right_," his reflection snapped, sitting up and rubbing its head painfully, looking every bit as unkempt as his real self.  "I'm up.  What do you want?"

      "I want to talk to Blaise," he told himself.

      "Again?  Why don't you two just room together and let me get some sleep?"

      "Just do it," Draco demanded, impatient.

      His reflection yawned and scratched its chest absent-mindedly.  Draco noticed with a start that his reflection was wearing a shirt.  "_Some_ of us have a modicum of decency," the mirror said dryly, following his gaze.  "Who're you trying to impress, anyway?"

      Draco reached for the top of the mirror again.

      "Okay!" his reflection exclaimed, holding up a staying hand and eyeing his real self's outstretched arm with alarm.  "He's probably asleep, though.  Not that _you_ care."  The image in the mirror swirled for a moment, finally resolving itself into the view of a darkened bedroom far away.  A boy with brown hair lay fast asleep on the bed in one corner of the room.  His soft snores were audible through the glass.

      "See?" the mirror said.  "Normal people sleep at one in the morning."

      "Stow it!" Draco hissed.  "Blaise!" he whispered into the glass, his breath fogging it slightly, but the boy did not respond.  "Blaise!" he said loudly, and then louder still, "Blaise!"

      "Wha--?"  The boy in the mirror rolled over and sat up, bleary-eyed.  "Oh," he said, grimacing as he saw the source of the disturbance, "put a shirt on, won't you?  I don't need that kind of a rude awakening."

      "Don't _you_ start, too," Draco said, glowering up at the mirror as it snickered.

      "S-sorry," Blaise said, yawning and running a hand through his tousled hair.  He distentangled his tall, thin form from the bedspread and came up to the mirror so that he appeared to be standing directly in front of Draco, looking at him through a round wooden window.  "What's going on?"

      "You can't tell anyone," Draco said, "but my father's come home."

      Blaise's brown eyes widened in surprise.  "Your father?  But isn't he in Azkaban?"

      "He was," Draco said grimly.

      "Are you going to turn him in?"

      "No."

      "You want me to turn him in?"

      "No!"

      "Just checking.  I know how you feel about him sometimes."

      Draco shook his head.  "That doesn't matter.  I need your help."

      "To do what?" Blaise asked cautiously.

      "Your father's in charge of registered Portkeys," Draco pointed out.

      "No," Blaise said, shaking his head vigorously as he realized what Draco was suggesting, "don't even think about it!  It won't work, anyway; how am I supposed to get my hands on a Portkey?"

      "Not a Portkey," Draco corrected him, "just a list of the authorized ones and their locations and activation times."

      Blaise considered it, a worried frown creasing his forehead.  "I don't know," he said dubiously.  "Can't your dad just Apparate wherever he wants to go?"

      "No.  I don't think he's strong enough right now.  Please," Draco implored his friend, astonished at how low he had sunk.

      "Did the word 'please' just escape your mouth?" the other boy asked, incredulous.  "Since when does a Malfoy ask nicely for anything?  All right," he added hastily, seeing Draco's dark look, "I'll do what I can."  He shook his head again.  "I must be crazy.  You're going to owe me for this," he added, a sudden, mischievous grin spreading across his face.

      "I'm sure I can afford it," Draco said confidently.

      "Mmmf," Blaise replied noncomittally, yawning again and casting a final glance at Draco before turning and shuffling back to bed.  "I'll send you an owl sometime tomorrow.  Now go to sleep like a normal person."

      The image in the mirror wavered again and the vision of the faraway bedroom vanished, replaced by the reflection of his own.  He was staring at himself with a sardonic expression on his face; or rather, his reflection was.

      "Something to add?" he asked himself.

      "No," his reflection said.

      "Good," Draco replied, turning his back on the mirror and climbing into bed.

      "Oh, _please_, Blaise, help me!  I'll do _anything!_"

      Draco reached over to the nightstand and fumbled around until he found a book to chuck at the mirror.  It landed with a satisfying thunk against the frame and he heard his reflection give an alarmed shout as it was thrown to the reflected floor.

      All throughout the next day, Draco waited anxiously for the owl from Blaise to arrive.  His greatest fear was that  Ministry wizards would charge through the manor gate at any moment, wands blazing, and drag his father away, but the day wore on with no sign that the Ministry even knew his father was missing.  Lucius Malfoy still refused to speak to him, however, so Draco spent the day wandering the grounds aimlessly while dark clouds gathered overhead, bringing with them the threat of rain before nightfall.  He mentally reviewed his plan, checking for flaws, but he didn't know how Portkeys worked well enough to know whether the Ministry would be able to track his father once he'd used one.  So much of the plan depended on that list--where was that bloody owl anyway?

      And then he saw it, a faint speck at first against the ominous clouds, but growing larger every moment.  Draco held out his hand and the owl swooped low over the grounds, coming to land on his outstretched arm with a flurry of wings.  Draco winced as its talons cut into his arm, but he was in too much of a hurry to care.  He tore the envelope from the owl's beak, and it hooted questioningly at him.

      "You want a place to weather the storm?" Draco asked as the first fat raindrops began to fall.  The owl hooted again.  Draco was torn between the malevolent desire to send the owl off into the tempest anyway and another feeling, one he could not readily identify.  Finally, he nodded and pointed at the glass windows high on the wall.  "That's the dining hall," he told the owl.  "The windows will open to let you in.  I'll--I'll bring you some food later."  The owl took off, and Draco rubbed his arm unconsciously as it soared through the window that had opened for it.

      Draco barely made it inside before the clouds opened up like a spigot, drenching the house and the grounds with a sudden downpour.  As it was, he was still soaking, and he shivered slightly in the entryway, wiping the water from his face and fumbling with numb fingers at the envelope.  At last, he managed to tear it open, and two pieces of parchment fell out.  Draco stooped to retrieve them, water dripping from his damp hair.

      The first sheet contained a hastily-scrawled note which read:

      Drake,

      I managed to nip this list from my father's study.  It's a few days old, but it shows some of today's planned Portkeys which should still be operational.  Your best bet is probably the one in Ravenglass, which is only a couple of miles from your house.

      Good luck!  I don't pretend to agree with what you're doing, but I understand.

      Your friend,

      Blaise Zambini

      The second sheet of parchment contained a neatly-typed listing of Portkeys in the Lake District, noting their locations, destinations, and activation times.  Most of these had already expired, but Blaise had circled the one for Ravenglass, which showed an activation time of five-fifteen and listed "Reykjavik, Iceland" as its destination, with the note, "Ravenglass Alpine Racing Team Day Spa Trip" to one side.  Draco exulted silently; Iceland was surely far enough away to keep his father from being found.  He ran from the entrance hall, through the drawing room, and into his father's study.

      His parents, who had been having a whispered conversation, looked up in alarm as their sodden son burst through the doorway. The elder Malfoy looked better under his wife's ministrations, although the nasty bruises on his face were still visible; he was sitting and holding a steaming cup of tea while his mother hovered over one shoulder.

      "What is it?" she asked her excited son, fear evident in her eyes.  "Has the Ministry come?"  It was apparent that she had shared Draco's anxiety about her husband's fate.

      Draco shook his head.  "No," he said, grinning and waving the list of Portkeys before them.  "I've got a way out."

      Mr. Malfoy set his cup down on the small table beside him.  "What are you suggesting?" he asked, his voice strangely cold.

      "I've found a way for you to disappear," Draco said, faltering at his father's stony expression.  "A-a way to escape, b-before the Ministry finds you here."

      Mr. Malfoy drew himself up to his full height so that he was eye-to-eye with his son.  "I hope you do not think I am capable of _flight_?"

      Draco blinked.  His father obviously didn't understand, he had missed something.  "You've got to get away," he tried again.  "What use is it escaping Azkaban if you're only going to let them find you again?"  He pointed to the circled item on the Portkey list.  "There's a Portkey," he began, but his father cut him off with an angry gesture.

      "No," Mr. Malfoy snapped, his eyes flashing, "I will not run."  He pulled the parchment from Draco's hand and tore it in two.  "Let them come.  If the fools think they can withstand me, they will soon discover their error."

      "Don't be stupid!" Draco exploded, all of his exultation burned away by the wave of frustration at his father's stubborness, at his ungratefulness, at the fact that he never, _ever_ listened to his own son.  "Even you can't take them all on!"

      "You would make me out to be a sniveling coward," his father hissed, stepping so close to Draco that he could feel the man's breath on his face.  "_I_ am not so faint of heart, _son_, but I begin to wonder about you; if you are worthy of the Malfoy name."

      Stung by his father's insinuation, Draco took a step backward, his vision blurred by sudden tears.  "Fine!" he shouted savagely.  "I hope you _are_ captured again, _Father_, so that the world can finally be rid of you!"  He turned and ran from the room before his father could see his tears and know how close his words had cut.


	4. Endings

Through the Dragon's Eyes

A story in four parts

ANTI-LAWYER HEX: I solemnly swear that I do not own the Harry Potter characters, that I am only borrowing them from J.K. Rowling for my own heinous experiments and that I fully intend to return them to her, more or less intact, when I have finished. _Lawyerus__ explodi!_

FOUR

"From that point on, Lucius Malfoy was basically my enemy," Malfoy told me with a heavy sigh. Though he said it matter-of-factly, his eyes held in them a haunted appearance that indicated he was feeling more than he was letting on.

There was a moment of silence, broken only by the scratching sound of the pen scribbling of its own accord on the notepad. I had bewitched it to record our conversation, so that I might devote my full attention to the interview. Malfoy sat rigidly, his back to the headboard, resting his arm on one raised knee and staring into the distance. There was nothing in his attitude to suggest the arrogance of his youth, only great weariness and quiet suffering. Although I didn't want to force him to relive painful memories, my story required it, and I consoled myself with the thought that we were almost through, and that he would be able to resume imbibing of the forgetfulness he found at the tavern.

Finally, as the pen paused, hovering expectantly over the notepad, I broke the silence. "What about your mother?"

He shook his head. "She sided with him," he responded, a trace of bitterness in his voice. "Only later did I find out why. At the time, though, it didn't matter; I knew only that my parents had turned against me and my home suddenly wasn't one anymore."

"What did you do?"

"I packed my bags. My father may not have wanted to use that Portkey, but I meant to."

I stared at him, amazed. "You ran away to Iceland?"

"Never had the chance," he replied, shaking his head again. "The Aurors showed up in force that night, about ten of them, and they brought Alastor Moody with them."

"Get out of there!" the mirror image of Blaise urged. After regaining his composure, Draco had contacted his friend and recounted, in a reasonably steady voice, the events of the afternoon. His friend was gratifyingly outraged and sympathetic. "The man's mad," he fumed, "and you don't want to be there when the Aurors come for him."

"I know," Draco said with a nod at the mirror as he dragged his trunk from its place in the closet, dropping it with a thud at the foot of his bed. "I'll take the Portkey in Ravenglass." He felt a twinge of anxiety at the thought of traveling all the way to Iceland on his own, but he brushed it aside; he was _not_ going to remain here.

"You could stay here," Blaise said. "I don't think my parents will mind."

"Thanks," Draco said shortly, opening the trunk and piling clothes inside of it. "But first I have to get there. And as the only Portkey close by leads to Iceland--"

"What about the Knight Bus?" his friend pointed out.

"Oh, right," said Draco. He'd completely forgotten about the bus, so focused was he on the subject of Portkeys. Suddenly, Iceland no longer had to be an alternative; he could travel by bus to Blaise's house and wait for the _Daily Prophet_ to triumphantly declare the capture--or death--of his father. The problem was money; Draco had never before been conscious of it, but he only had a little and he could not ask his parents for more. "What does it cost, d'you reckon?"

Blaise opened his mouth to reply, but no sound came out. Instead, the surface of the mirror began to ripple outward from the center, as if a large rock had been tossed into a silver pool, subsiding afer a few moments. The image of his friend was gone, replaced by the usual reflection of his room.

"What happened?" Draco demanded of the mirror, scrambling over to it.

"Someone's severed the connection," his reflection replied, looking worried. At that moment, there was a loud bang from outside, as if a small bomb had gone off, accompanied by a muffled shout.

"Aurors!" Draco breathed, abandoning the mirror, flinging open the bedroom door and rushing to the landing. The front door stood open, and through it he could see his father on the porch outside, wand burning brightly in the swiftly-gathering darkness. The rain continued to fall heavily on the grounds beyond, occasionally blown through the open doorway by a sudden gust of wind. It looked as though his father had attacked someone--but no, for his father's stance was cool, almost relaxed, rather than defiant.

Over the pounding of his heart, Draco heard his father shout, "Let that be a lesson to you, Dawlish! No one may enter the grounds without an invitation."

"Surrender, Malfoy!" came the answering cry in a gruff voice that could only be Mad-Eye Moody's. Draco winced unconsciously as he heard it; the sound still recalled the unpleasant memory of helplessly bouncing on a hard stone floor while a crowd of students looked on and laughed. "We'll break through eventually!"

"By all means, try," his father drawled. "In the time it will take you to disable every defense, I will have had a clear shot at each and every one of you." The elder Malfoy emphasized these last words with several jabs of his wand.

There was no response. Draco imagined the Aurors huddled together in the rain, hurriedly discussing their best course of action; it certainly seemed as if Lucius Malfoy had them outmatched. After a moment, his father turned and reentered the house, a look of disdain on his face, shutting out the wind and rain as he closed the front door. Draco retreated into the hall so as to remain unseen.

"Well?" he heard his mother ask.

"They have surrounded the manor," his father said scornfully. "They cannot enter, so they wait for me to come out."

_It's a siege_, Draco realized, a sense of foreboding growing in the pit of his stomach as he returned to his room. _They mean to starve us out._ Would the elder Malfoy try to fight through the waiting Aurors when their supplies started to run low? Or would he simply allow them all to starve rather than surrender? The last thought made Draco's insides cold, for it seemed like the course his father would choose, especially after their earlier dispute.

He threw himself onto the bed, resting his head on a pillow and watching the raindrops trickle down the window. The Aurors wouldn't just wait, he told himself; it wasn't in their natures. They would find a way in sooner or later.

By the seventh day, Draco was less certain. Only once, on the second day, had their captors tried anything, and that was to send an Auror on a broomstick over the walls. A sudden stiff breeze had sprung up, sending the Auror flying backward, across the road, and into the field beyond. After that, the Ministry wizards seemed content to let his father make the first move, stationing themselves at intervals around the perimiter of the wall and changing positions every hour.

Draco's stomach growled fitfully as he watched the Aurors from his window; he had not eaten since midnight, when he snuck into the kitchen to find the larder depressingly bare, save for a few jars of Odham's Olde Fashioned Eel Soup (A Family Favourite Since 1490) and a tin of biscuits. He'd passed on the soup and devoured the biscuits, but they were hardly satisfying and he longed for something more substantial, anything that would quell the ache in his stomach. Even the eel soup was starting to sound appealing.

_ So this is what it's like to be poor and hungry,_ he thought miserably, staring out at the gathering dusk. Through the glass, he could see the guards changing position; the Auror beyond the wall below walking off as one bearing a torch took up her place, leaning idly against a tree facing the side of the house, apparently settling in for a long night.

Quite suddenly, and seemingly from nowhere, a jet of red light struck the replacement Auror directly in the back, momentarily bathing him with a crimson aura. Draco could see the shock and surprise register on his face even as he crumpled to the ground, revealing a shadowy figure who was already sprinting away toward the front of the house, wand outstretched. Draco tore out of his room and down the stairs, even as he heard shouts and cries from the gate, followed by the occasional sizzle of a wand blast as it cut through the air. He threw open the front door and stopped cold, every muscle in his body paralyzed with surprise and fear as he came face-to-face with the last person he expected to come to their rescue.

"Fetch your father," Lord Voldemort said, his high, chilling voice seeming to freeze Draco's very blood. His scarlet eyes bored straight into Draco as if seeing directly into the depths of his soul, his piercing gaze summoning all of Draco's terror from the darkest recesses of his mind and making it pale in comparison. "Now."

Nodding dumbly, Draco backed away, afraid to turn around lest something more horrible than the pale, gaunt figure now standing in the doorway manifest itself when he looked again. He had not gone far when his parents, robed in black, strode into the entrance hall, stopping a respectful distance from the Dark Lord, who had crossed the threshold into the house, and bowing low.

"We are honored by your presence, Master," his father intoned.

"I wondered why you did come directly to me after you escaped Azkaban, Lucius," Lord Voldemort said softly. "I see now the reason."

His father straightened. "Forgive me, master; I would have come had I been able."

"No matter," Lord Voldemort said dismissively. "Your escape kept the Ministry occupied long enough to effect the liberation of my remaining Death Eaters. You have unwittingly done a service to your fellows."

"Thank you, my lord," his father murmured.

"Narcissa," Voldemort said, turning his baleful gaze on Draco's mother, who also straightened. "What business have you with Lord Voldemort tonight?"

"I have heard, my lord, that tonight you intend to capture and finally destroy the boy, Harry Potter. I request permission to bear witness to this momentous event."

"I see," Voldemort replied slowly. "The boy's death will not be a public event, Narcissa, nor one that any but a Death Eater may witness." He eyed her unblinkingly. "Would you, then, be counted among my servants? Would you be willing to die if I require it?"

"I would, my lord," said his mother, bowing again.

Draco, who had been edging slowly toward the stairs, now stopped, stunned. His father was one thing, but his mother--his mother could not cross over to Lord Voldemort--she was all he had left! Swallowing his fear, he stepped forward, intending to interfere, wanting to put a stop to the madness, but Voldemort, as if aware of Draco's thoughts, fixed him with his horrible gaze and Draco's muscles seized with renewed terror.

"My lord, if I may," his father spoke up, "I can vouch for her devotion to our cause."

"Devotion is not enough, Lucius," the Dark Lord replied. "Lord Voldemort requires actions, not merely sentiments. If you desire to be my servant," he continued, turning again to Draco's mother, "you must prove such a desire with both thought _and_ deed. You can no longer be a passive spectator of your husband's exploits but must join with him, and others, in carrying out my orders."

"I understand, master," she answered softly.

"No!" Draco shouted, darting forward, his fear of losing his mother overpowering his fear of Voldemort. In one swift motion, Lucius Malfoy grabbed hold of his left arm, twisting it sharply behind his back and forcing him to the ground.

Voldemort's eyes glinted as he approached Draco, a cold, cruel smile on his face. "Do you think to save your mother from me?" he asked. "She is already mine."

"He is a fool and a coward, master," his father snapped, twisting Draco's arm further and causing his son to gasp in pain. "Nothing more."

"Perhaps." Voldemort reached out a long, bony finger and rested it underneath Draco's chin, studying his face for a moment. Draco flinched at the contact; Voldemort's finger was abnormally cold to the touch. "There is still something of you in him, Lucius, that may yet emerge," the Dark Lord remarked. "He may yet prove worthy."

"As you say, master," his father murmured, but his hold on Draco's arm did not relax.

Voldemort held Draco's face a moment longer before releasing it, turning back to his mother. "Hold out your arm," he instructed. She obediently stretched her arm toward the Dark Lord, who took it at the wrist, sliding back the sleeve of her robe to expose her forearm. He then touched a skeletal forefinger to her bare skin, and there was a bright flash of light accompanied by a sizzling sound and a puff of smoke. His mother winced, but did not cry out. Draco struggled desperately against his father's unyielding grip on his arm, succeeding only in causing another stabbing pain to shoot through it.

"You are now bound to me by the Dark Mark," Voldemort told her. "The rewards for faithful service are many. The punishment for failure is pain. The price of treachery," he added in a dangerous whisper, "is death."

"I understand, master."

Voldemort nodded once. "Come, then," he said. "We have spent enough time here, and there is another matter that I must attend to this night." He turned with a swish of his dark robes, walking toward the door.

"What of the boy, my lord?"

"Leave him," Voldemort called over his shoulder. "Well done, Bella," he said to someone as he passed outside. Lucius Malfoy released his iron grip on his son, stepping over him and holding out one gloved hand to his wife. She took it and together they exited into the night, sealing the door behind them.

Clutching his throbbing left arm, his vision blurred, Draco stumbled over to the door and attempted to wrench it open, but it would not budge. He hammered against the wood with his good arm, letting out a cry of mingled frustration and despair. Everything had gone horrifyingly wrong, he'd lost everything and been unable to stop it--no, he corrected himself, turning his back on the recalcitrant door and sinking to the floor, he had been too terrified to stop it, paralyzed by fear. Even Potter had been able to face Lord Voldemort--not just once, but several times--whereas he, a Malfoy, had quailed under the Dark Lord's terrible gaze. His father was right: he was a coward, unworthy of the Malfoy name.

_Maybe that's why he's never paid attention to me_, Draco thought, hot tears stinging the corners of his eyes, _maybe he could always see the taint of fear._ And Harry, who never showed any fear, no matter what rumors Draco had started about him, who time after time faced down danger and emerged victorious--wasn't Harry the focus of Lucius Malfoy's every thought since his reemergence some seven years ago?

"I have heard rumors," Lucius Malfoy had said over Draco's first holiday from Hogwarts, "that Harry Potter has come out of hiding."

"Yes," Draco sneered, "but he's just a common boy, if you ask me. There's nothing special about him."

"Don't be so certain," the elder Malfoy had replied. "If he's anything like his misguided father, he will undoubtedly prove to be a nuisance before the end. He bears watching, Draco."

Even then, his father's attention was already focused on Harry Potter. Jealous, Draco had attempted to bring Potter down, to rob him of whatever qualities his father found interesting, to shift Lucius Malfoy's focus to his own son, but all in vain. With every victory, Harry Potter consumed more and more of his father's time, particularly after he tricked Lucius Malfoy out of his house elf and again when he made a near-miraculous escape from Lord Voldemort in the graveyard. Now, at the end, his mother had also taken an interest in Harry; the hungry look on her pale face as she asked Voldemort for permission to witness Harry's death had not escaped Draco.

Draco brushed away the tears, which had begun to overflow his eyes, and chuckled bitterly. It was ironic: Harry Potter, who had no parents, no family, had unintentionally claimed his. In his younger days, Draco supposed he might feel jealous, but after recent events, Harry was welcome to them. He sighed heavily, resignedly, a kind of numbness descending slowly upon him, smothering his emotions. Whatever happened, his parents were lost to him. If Harry prevailed, the Death Eaters would be rounded up and cast into Azkaban; if Voldemort was the victor, they would be too busy in the Death Eaters' subsequent campaign of terror to notice him. The thought was both freeing and frightening; on the one hand, he no longer had to worry about their approval or disapproval, but on the other, he would now have to look after himself.

Pushing himself to his feet, the blanket over his emotions sapping his energy, Draco wearily began to climb the stairs, intending to finish packing and find a way out of the manor house. He would take the Knight Bus into London, or maybe to Blaise's house, if Blaise's parents would let him stay for a few days. He had only made it halfway upstairs before there was a sudden brilliant blue flash, a whooshing noise like the sound of air being suddenly forced out of place, and Blaise Zabini himself materialized in the entryway below, accompanied by an older man who looked around warily, wand at the ready.

"Blaise!" Draco called, leaping down the stairs, nearly stumbling as he missed a step, and rushing over to his friend, ready to hug him, he was so relieved. Blaise looked alarmed and Draco hastily checked himself, forcing himself into a walk and letting his arms fall to his sides. What had he been _thinking_?

"Um, glad you're okay," Blaise said awkwardly. "This is my dad, Julian Zabini," he added, indicating the older man with a nod.

Mr. Zabini was slightly shorter than his son, and somewhat stockier, with silver-gray hair and a goatee. He was dressed in casual Muggle clothing and was surveying the entrance hall carefully, as if expecting danger. "Where are your parents?" he asked warily, wand still outstretched.

"They left," Draco told him, "with Lord--with You-Know-Who."

Blaise's father looked at him sharply. "He was here? Did he give any indication of where he was going?"

"To kill Harry Potter. But I don't know where."

Mr. Zabini swore softly. "We need to find out."

"Both your parents are Death Eaters?" Blaise asked curiously.

Draco nodded, forcing his expression to remain neutral. "My mother just became one," he said, his voice shaking slightly despite his efforts to control it.

"Oh," Blaise murmured softly, looking sympathetic.

"Right," Mr. Zabini said, lowering his wand, apparently satisfied that there was no immediate danger. "We'll need to catch up with them." He turned to the two boys. "By 'we' I mean the Aurors, of course; there's about twenty of 'em waiting back at the Ministry. I wish Dumbledore wasn't out of commission; he's worth the whole lot." He sighed and reached into the back pocket of his pants, withdrawing a golden spoon. "Always useful to have one or two implements handy, just in case," he said to Draco, laying the spoon on the marble floor and pointing at it with his wand. "_Portus_."

A blue glow surrounded the spoon, which clattered noisily against the stone for a moment before falling silent as the glow faded. "On three," Mr. Zabini said, retrieving it from the floor. "Just a finger will do. One...two...three!"

Draco felt himself yanked sideways with the others as their fingers came into contact with the spoon, their surroundings vanishing with a rush of sound and whirling colors, as if they were caught in the center of a maelstrom. Just as Draco began to get dizzy, he felt his feet unexpectedly hit solid ground, and the spell released them. He blinked a few times, waiting for the room to come into focus, and found himself in a large, cluttered office space that had been divided into several cubicles. A row of windows on one wall showed the night sky. Various witches and wizards, who had been leaning against the sides of the cubicles, biding their time or talking quietly now gathered expectantly about the newcomers.

"I had to tell my father everything," Blaise whispered to him apprehensively. "This is what happened. Sorry."

"It's okay," Draco whispered back.

"Well, what's the story, Julian?" said a young witch with short, dark spiky hair. "Where's You-Know-Who going?"

"I'm afraid we don't know where the Dark Lord is headed," said Blaise's father, "only that he means to kill the Potter boy tonight." The Aurors stirred excitedly at this news.

"Maybe we should question the Malfoy boy," the spiky-haired witch suggested, eyeing Draco suspiciously.

"Why?" Blaise demanded angrily before Draco could respond. "He doesn't know what the Dark Lord's up to."

"He _says_ he doesn't," the witch retorted, "but his Father's a Death Eater. Bet you know all the family secrets, eh, Malfoy?"

Mr. Zabini held up a hand. "We haven't the time to argue, Blaise, Eris," he said, casting a quelling look at his son, who had opened his mouth to do just that. "The only way we're going to find the Dark Lord is if we cooperate."

"You don't need to tell us how to do our jobs, Zabini," one of the other Aurors, an older man, said gruffly. "We'll find the Dark Lord. You just get us all there when we do."

"I know, Everard," Mr. Zabini replied patiently. "That has always been my intent." He pulled a second, silver-colored spoon from his back pocket. "Everyone have their spoons?"

The Aurors nodded and some of them held up identical spoons.

"Right, well I've affixed a Protean charm to them all, with this one"--he held the spoon high--"as the master copy. As soon as we discover the Dark Lord's whereabouts, I'll turn the master spoon into a Portkey to his location, and the others should change as well."

"Should?" the spiky-haired witch named Eris asked dubiously.

"I've never mixed a Protean charm with a Portkey before," Mr. Zabini admitted. "But it's our only chance. The Dark Lord's bound to seal the area off to Apparation, and I doubt he'll be anywhere near a fireplace. The spoon will burn for a moment when it changes, so you'll know when we've found him. And...try to get there as soon as possible," he finished lamely.

"Right," Mr. Zabini said to the two boys as the small group began to disperse. "Now we wait." He led them over to a cubicle where a young wizard whose hair had been pulled back into a very long ponytail sat, paging through what appeared to be maps of various parts of London and the surrounding countryside. A small mirror lay face up on one corner of his desk, reflecting the ceiling.

"All right, Chris?" Mr Zambini asked as they approached. "How's the wand arm?"

"Not well enough for me to be out there tonight," the young wizard replied, looking up and ruefully rubbing his right arm, which Draco could see had been set in a cast. "It itches something crazy, though."

"That's a good sign," Mr. Zabini told him encouragingly. "Can you move your fingers yet?"

"A little," Chris said, looking over at Blaise and Draco. "Splinched," he said by way of explanation. "I was in too much of a hurry to track down a Death Eater, wasn't paying enough attention."

Draco nodded, trying to look sympathetic rather than queasy at the thought of leaving one arm behind in the middle of Apparating.

"I'll stick to Portkeys, myself," Mr. Zabini commented. "Safer. You've met Blaise?"

"Yes," Chris said, shaking hands awkwardly with Blaise and staring at Draco curiously, "and it seems like I should know _you_, too."

"Draco...Malfoy," Draco replied. It was the first time he'd been uncomfortable using his surname. He was beginning to realize how other people, regular people, perceived his father, recalling the scorn in Eris's voice when she referred to him as "the Malfoy boy." It had never occurred to him how many people disliked Lucius Malfoy, and they would naturally assume that Lucius Malfoy's son would tread closely in his father's footsteps. He suddenly felt very dirty, very small, and very alone.

But rather than look disgusted, Chris merely nodded. "Ah. Your father's been through here once before. There's a striking resemblance. I know that's probably not what you want to hear right now," he added, as Draco looked away, ashamed.

"I don't care what anyone else thinks," Blaise told him quietly, laying a hand on his shoulder. "You're _not_ your father. He's out there, and you're here."

"That's very true," Mr. Zabini affirmed. "So, how do we look?" he asked, clapping his hands together and rubbing them vigorously.

"Well, Eris is going to scour London proper, McGinnis has Lewisham, Emily is checking up on the group at the Malfoy manor, and Everard's searching Hounslow," Chris replied, rifling through various maps. "Ah. Everard's just arrived," he remarked, tapping one. Draco leaned in and saw a small, red dot labeled "Everard, P.D." moving through the streets of Hounslow. "The problem is, we don't know where Harry or You-Know-Who is going to turn up tonight. Dumbledore might've known, but..." He trailed off.

"But what?" Draco asked, glancing up in time to see a sad look cross Mr. Zabini's face. He had been meaning to ask about the man's curious statement earlier.

"But, as Dumbledore's unavailable," said Mr. Zabini quickly, "we'll just have to guess." Draco could tell that the elder Zabini was hiding something, but he didn't have the chance to ask as Blaise's father plunged on. "So, we can assume that it will occur somewhere in the Greater London area, as that was Harry's last known location. But we can't rule out the whole of the surrounding area, either."

"That's still an awfully large area to try and cover in one night," Blaise remarked, looking at Everard's dot on the map. "Won't he show up on here?"

"Harry might," Chris answered. "But You-Know-Who definitely won't. If it had been as simple as finding him on a map, we'd've caught him a long time ago."

"What if neither of them is in the London area anymore?" Draco inquired.

"Let's just hope they are," Mr. Zabini said grimly.

They looked on in silence for a few hours as Chris shuffled through the maps on his desk, keeping track of the various Aurors as they searched the numerous boroughs in the greater London area, with no results, reporting in at intervals.

"Nothing happening here," Everard growled, scowling up at them from the mirror on the desk. "No one else has had much luck, either, I gather."

"No," Chris said. "Keep an eye out."

"I'll keep two out," the gruff old Auror replied as his reflection vanished.

By midnight, both Blaise and Draco had begun to feel drowsy and had retreated to two chairs in an empty cubicle across from where Chris and Blaise's father kept up their vigil. Mr. Zabini had fetched a large mug of steaming coffee, which he refilled ocasionally with a flick of his wand, all the while peering intently at the maps.

"Nothing," Blaise murmured, stifling a yawn. "You'd think we'd hear something by now."

Draco nodded absently, replaying the previous day's events in his mind. It already felt like ages had passed since his parents had disappeared with Lord Voldemort, effectively abandoning him while they plotted to kill Harry Potter. Once, Draco had felt nothing but enmity for Potter, he now fervently hoped Harry would survive, if only to spite his parents. Of anyone, Harry stood the most chance of victory; no one else had escaped Voldemort and certain death so consistently. Maybe, when this was all over, he would apologize to Harry, try to make it up to him. Who knew? Maybe they would even turn out to be the best of friends. Maybe...

It seemed like only an instant had passed. He wasn't even aware that he had dozed off until he felt Blaise nudge him hard in the arm. "Something's happening," his friend whispered urgently.

"--some kind of a racket," someone, an old woman by the sound of her, was saying. Draco opened his eyes and saw both Chris and Mr. Zabini bent over the small mirror, frowns on their faces. "Bright lights and loud noises rousing half the neighborhood." Draco sat up, suddenly awake.

"I have half a mind to go and jinx the lot of them," the old witch continued angrily, "teach them some respect, waking a body in the middle of the night. Probably some kids, Merlin knows what their parents are up to, letting them run around this late at night--"

Chris flipped the mirror over, muffling the old woman's ranting.

"Find out where she is," Mr. Zabini said.

Chris nodded and turned the mirror back over. "That's not necessary, ma'am," he said soothingly. "We'll look into it. May I ask where you are located?"

"What?" the old woman asked, breaking off her tirade. She had apparently not even noticed the momentary lack of an audience. "Oh. Gertrude Tattersall. Number Seven, Lions Way. In Godric's Hollow."

"Of _course_!" Mr. Zabini practically shouted, pounding the desk with one fist. "Why didn't I think of that?"

An electric thrill went through Draco. Godric's Hollow! It was so obvious! Mr. Zabini was right, they should have seen it earlier; the final confrontation between Harry and Voldemort had to take place where it all began.

"What's that?" Ms. Tattersall asked, sounding quite alarmed.

Chris thanked her quickly. "We'll send someone straightaway." As her image vanished, he turned to the excited man next to him. "Think that's them, then?"

"We'll soon find out," Mr. Zabini replied, pulling the silver spoon once more from his back pocket. "You two are going to have stay here," he told Blaise and Draco as they walked over.

"But my parents..." Draco began. He couldn't just sit by and wait for news, he _had_ to be there, to see Harry triumph.

Mr. Zabini cut him off with a stern look. "No," he said firmly. "We're talking about a battle with the most powerful Dark wizard in a century and Merlin knows how many of his supporters. If I let you come, I would be remiss in my responsibilities as a Ministry wizard, and as a father," he added, directing a similarly severe look at Blaise, who had also opened his mouth to protest. "Godric's Hollow will not be a safe place tonight."

"If You-Know-Who wins, there won't be _any_ safe places," Draco pointed out.

"Then I hope we can stop him," Mr. Zabini replied with a note of finality in his voice as he placed the spoon on top of the maps. "No. That's all I'm saying on the subject. _Portus_. I hope this works," he remarked, more to Chris than to the boys, retrieving the spoon after it stopped quivering. "Otherwise, I'm about to be in serious trouble."

Draco, who had already made up his mind about what he was going to do, counted to three in his head and then lunged forward, grabbing hold of Mr. Zabini's arm as the Portkey took effect.

"Draco!" Blaise shouted, his cry swallowed up by the rush of sound and the light that accompanied Portkey travel. The next instant, Draco's feet found solid ground and he was standing with Mr. Zabini in the middle of a darkened street. Houses lined either side of the paved road, their windows dark and vacant, the occupants inside asleep.

"What do you think you're doing?" Mr. Zabini demanded, furious, his voice barely above a whisper.

"My parents are out here," Draco replied, also in a whisper, his ears straining to hear any sound. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked sharply but no other sounds reached his ears, save the rustle of leaves in the treetops as the night breeze passed through them.

"I'm sending you back," Mr. Zabini told him, brandishing the spoon.

"You can't," Draco said grimly. "The Protean charm, remember?"

Before Mr. Zabini could reply, there was a sound like thunder that rattled the windows of the surrounding houses, accompanied by a bright green flash from the other end of town. "Stay close," the older man ordered, pocketing the spoon and breaking into a trot, wand grasped firmly in one hand.

Draco followed him, keeping pace as they darted down one street after another, trying to make their way toward the source of the disturbance. Draco felt his dread mounting with every passing moment, every wrong turn, every dead end. What if they didn't arrive in time? What if Voldemort won? Who would stop him then? Dumbledore could do it, couldn't he? But where was Dumbledore? Why did it sound like Harry was going to have face Voldemort alone? His mind stumbled across an ominious possibility: what if Dumbledore had already fallen and the Ministry was trying to keep it secret? But how? How could Voldemort defeat Dumbledore, arguably the greatest wizard since Merlin himself? It was unthinkable! And yet, there was the uncomfortable way Mr. Zabini had tried to change the subject when Draco asked...

Panting heavily, Draco slowed, feeling more and more certain by the second that he had discovered the truth. His mind, driven into high speed by his anxiety, flitted from one certainty to another: without Dumbledore, Harry was their last hope. Mr. Zabini's footfalls resounded on the pavement ahead, but Draco paid little attention to the older man, staring hard at the night sky. _Please let Harry win_, he implored whatever presence inhabited the vast starry expanse. _For all our sakes._

He was startled out of his reverie by a voice shouting, "_Avada__ kedavra!_" There was an enormous roar, like the sound of something huge slicing its way through the air, followed by a sizzling sound and a thump of a body crumpling to the ground.

Draco looked up, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling, stomach knotting horribly as he realized, he _knew_ what he was going to see. Mr. Zabini's body lay facedown in the intersection, only a few yards away. He was dead. The Death Eater who had felled him now turned on Draco, wand pointed directly at his chest.

"Well, well," the figure drawled in a familiar voice.

Draco's blood ran cold as he recognized the voice of his father, but he forced himself to stand up straight. He was finished with cowering before the man.

"I never imagined, when the Dark Lord commanded me to keep watch, that I would come upon you, _son_," Lucius Malfoy said, a hint of cruel amusement in his voice as he advanced upon his son. "I believed we had left you cowering at home."

Draco clenched his fists, but did not reply as his father took up a position a mere foot away, wand tip pressing painfully into his chest.

"I see you have some fire, after all," his father noted. "The Dark Lord always knows. You may yet prove to be a Malfoy after all."

"No, I won't," Draco replied firmly, fighting the wrenching sadness that welled up in him as he made his decision. "I won't follow in your footsteps. I'll change my name if I have to, and live with Muggles if I have to, but I _won't_ end up like you."

"You disappoint me," his father said, his tone icy.

"No, you disappoint _me_!" Draco exploded, unable to contain his anger and his sorrow any longer. "Do you know how long I've waited, dad, for you to notice me! Do you even _care_ how hard I tried to be like you, to win your approval...your love!" he shouted in a quavering voice, tears streaming freely down his face. "I was _never_ good enough for you, no matter how hard I tried! I kept telling myself that it was something wrong with me, but it was _you_, you all along! All you ever cared about was Harry Potter and your precious Lord Voldemort!"

His father struck him hard across the face with the back of one gloved hand, causing Draco to reel backwards and fall to the ground. "You _dare_ speak the Dark Lord's name?" he seethed, towering over his son.

"What of it?" Draco demanded, wiping away the blood that had begun to trickle from his mouth where his father's fist had struck.

"You are not _worthy_ to speak it," his father hissed. "Did you never stop to think that everything I've ever done has been for you? Do you think I want my son to grow up with no choice but to disgrace the noble house of Malfoy by marrying some half-blooded hag--or worse, a Muggle? Our world, the wizarding world is _dying_," his father continued furiously. "The only way to save it is by conserving the pure wizarding bloodlines, reinforcing them through careful breeding until wizards once again become a force to be with reckoned with, one that even Muggles cannot deny! Do you want your children, and your children's children, to have to hide, as we do now? We are gifted, Draco; we are born to be their rulers, their masters! One day, we will crush the Muggles beneath our feet and take this world--which they have nearly destroyed several times over--back from them."

"You're mad," Draco whispered, stunned at his father's words. "Mad as Voldemort himself."

"Do _not_ speak his name!" his father snarled, leveling his wand at Draco. "You would betray twelve hundred years of family heritage, and for what? Muggles? Half-breeds? Tell me, what is so important that you'd be willing to die for it?"

"Are you going to kill me, then?" Draco asked, staring defiantly up at him. "It won't matter. Either way, the Malfoy line will end with me."

"If it must," his father said coldly. "I will not let the house of Malfoy pass into the hands of a traitor to all wizardkind. _Avada__--"_

Suddenly, there was a blinding flash of blue light from behind him. Draco rolled out from under his father's wand and scrambled to his feet as Chris and Blaise appeared.

"Do it!" Blaise cried, seeing the murderous look on Lucius Malfoy's face, and Draco noticed he was holding Chris's wand arm steady, the fingers of which were clutching a wand.

"_Avada__ kedavra!_" With a roar like the winds of a thousand hurricanes bottled up and released all at once, a fountain of green light erupted from the end of the Auror's wand, striking Draco's father square in the midsection, diffusing over his body. Lucius Malfoy fell, a look of shock on his face, wand clattering to the ground beside him. Draco felt a momentary pang of sorrow at the loss of his father, but he felt even greater sorrow for Blaise, who had discovered his father's limp form lying on the pavement. Blaise, at least, had a decent father. He watched as his friend crouched low over his father's body, sobbing disconsolately as the wind kicked up around them and the trees groaned and creaked in protest. The noise and rushing wind from the curse that killed Lucius Malfoy had not abated, but had grown in intensity. Feeling nothing but pity for his friend, Draco glanced over the tops of the houses around them, searching for the source of the building breeze. It took but a moment to find.

A blinding, pure white glow shone from behind the houses in front of them, bathing everything in a warm radiance that seemed to grow more powerful by the second. A snatch of unearthly song reached Draco's ears, lasting only a moment before it was carried away on the wind, but in that moment his heart lifted and all his worries, his sorrow, his exhaustion seemed a thousand miles away. He stood, arms outstretched, surrendering to the light that burned brighter and brighter all around them until it blotted out the night, the trees, the houses, and their surroundings, until Draco had to squeeze his eyes shut, and even then he could still see it, and he knew he would go blind...

And then, imperceptibly at first, the blazing radiance began to fade, faster and faster until it was gone and all was silent once more.

"What _was_ that?" Chris asked breathlessly.

"The end," Draco murmured, as lights flicked on in the various houses, their occupants now obviously awake.

"Who won? Did you see?"

Draco shook his head. "No," he said, "but I don't need to. I already know who won." He walked over to Blaise and knelt down next to him, laying a tentative hand on his shoulder.

"You know the rest," my companion told me, finally falling silent.

"That can't be the end," I said plaintively.  "What happened to Blaise?  Why did your mother join with Voldemort?  Did the Protean charm work?  How did you end up here?  You've left a lot of loose ends."

Malfoy chuckled dryly and looked around at the dingy apartment. "Obviously. But those are other stories." He yawned. "And it's late. Or rather," he said, eyeing the clock on the small stove in the kitchenette, "early."

"What? Oh," I said, glancing at the clock. It was six-fifteen in the morning. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to keep you up all night."

"That's all right," Malfoy said, waving a dismissive hand. "I told you I could go on and on."

"Have you ever thought about putting your life story down in a book?" I asked, gathering up wand, voice recorder, notepad and spent pen. "Writing your memoirs?"

"No," he responded almost immediately. "I'm not a wonderful writer." He paused, seeming to consider something. "Unless you were to help me."

I straightened, surprised. "What, seriously?"

He nodded.

"Me?"

He nodded again. "Somehow I think you, at least, would strive to maintain accuracy."

"Oh," I said, suddenly uncomfortable. If he was going to take me on as a partner because of my journalistic integrity, he needed to know one thing about me. "I have a small confession to make."

Malfoy looked at me curiously.

"Erm, well, I don't quite know how to say this, but...Rita Skeeter is my stepmother."

"Really? Well, I won't hold it against you. Think about it," he told me, rising from the bed and opening the door for me.

"I will," I promised. "And thank you."

"No," he said, "thank you."


End file.
